Birth Of A New Man
by possessmemore
Summary: John is lost. He is lonely and broken but a new beginning is soon to come.
1. The Last Goodbye

John limped through the seemingly endless rows of tombstones trying to be as fast as possible. He wanted to be done with this. Sooner rather than later.

He knew the way by heart, had seen every grave on his way a thousand times nonetheless he kept looking around. He was observing everything he passed because he wasn't able to face his destination. Not yet.

* * *

John was staring at the expensive black marble that had become the symbol of everything that was sad and dark in his life.

"It's actually kind of funny, Sherlock. Sometimes, I am even able to laugh about it. Surely, you wouldn't see it that way but….It's just…I don't know." He tilted his head, staring at his shoes and the earth beneath them.

"They all see it. Every single one of them. They pretend not to. I am fairly certain that I am playing my role very convincingly though. Because I am the best actor. I am so good at it, you would be pleased. No, that is the wrong word. You would be impressed how I developed the ability to make everyone believe that I am feeling better. That I am not feeling lonely without you. That I don't have to struggle to get up in the morning. It helps, you know. I watch their relief when I smile at them and I am almost able to believe it myself." He shrugged his shoulders at that.

"I know you would see right through it, but that doesn't matter. And, actually, nothing matters anymore. You left me, Sherlock! You fucking left me!" He took a steadying breath to calm down, it was a cemetery after all.

"There is no sound, taste or voice that doesn't remind me of you. Everything lost its value the day I lost you. Sentiment, I know. God, I am just so angry. And it makes it worse that I can't hate you. I wish I could. Oh, how I wish I could hate you. Maybe I could move on then. Maybe I could start a new life somewhere else. But I'm just sitting there. Every day. I'm staring at your violin for hours, imagining you'd come and play for me. Imagination grew very important to me in the last month, I daresay. I can't even count how often I've pictured you returning. I can almost hear you chuckle at that. Amusing! I remember your laugh but not my own. I don't think that's a problem, I won't need it again. Just another thing I have lost." He was clearing his throat to find the bravery to proceed.

"Yorick speaks of you, you know? You always argued about his name but that is none of your concern anymore, is it? How else would you name a skull? And he is quite smart. He is right about so many things. I understand why you talked to him so often. He is the reason that I am talking to you now. There was one thing he said… and I…I had to agree with him." He knew that it would be hard and he didn't want to hurt Sherlock but he had to say it. He had to say it out loud.

"I….I wish we'd never met! There! I said it." He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The sky above him was blue with a single bird flying around, searching for prey. John's gaze was fixed on the engraved letters.

"Erm…I…I have to go now, Sherlock." Hesitating, he let his fingers slide over the 'S', feeling his eyes burn.

"I miss you. I love you." He shifted into his military stance and quickly turned around. He knew he'd never come back.

* * *

Sherlock was slumped against a tree, hugging his legs tight. He had buried his face between knees and chest, sobbing quietly.

He had lost John.

Forever.

* * *

That night, John was standing in the middle of the living room. All he could remember was his own voice screaming this painful word, the name he would never forget. And blood. God, he needed to talk. There was no one. As usual. But this was not what made John turn around in utter disbelief. Yorick. Yorick was gone.

Hello John. Pub? – Greg

_Always the eloquent DI, _John thought, instantly dismissing the offer. It was three days after Yorick had magically vanished from 221b and John was already freaking out. Somehow, he had never noticed how many conversations consisted only of him talking to that skull.

Scratching his neck, a newly developed habit that caused sore and itchy marks, John considered never talking to any human again.

_Appealing. Not healthy, at all._

_To go or not to go. _

_Yorick might have laughed at that._

"Oh, God!" John groaned.

He jumped off of the couch, hurrying to the bathroom while he typed on his phone. If he wanted to go out he would have to shower first. He smelled a bit. OK, not just a bit.

Thirty minutes later, he stood in the doorway. He knew why he hesitated and found it perfectly reasonable. _Pity_. Greg would have that look on his face that always made John want to cry. No, not cry. Weep. He sighed heavily.

"Soldier on."

He took the stairs two at a time, his jaw tight and his eyes looking straight ahead.

* * *

Sherlock stared angrily on the floor of his hotel room, clutching his hair painfully in his right fist. He was sitting on an awfully modern leather sofa that was neither comfortable nor cheap, which made Sherlock even angrier.

His gaze was still locked on the little fragments of bone that had covered the floor after throwing an annoying, if not hateful skull on the wall. In his left hand, Sherlock held the solution to all his problems, tempting in a way he hadn't experienced in years.

The table in front of him was already prepared. Somehow he had managed to avoid seeing his own face in the small mirror. He forced his eyes shut and turned his head away from the evidence of painful loss. With two fingers, Sherlock tore the small plastic bag open before he scattered most of the clean white powder all over his reflection in the mirror.

It was OK. That would help him to stay alive. To survive the guilt and the loneliness he had to bear. Beside the mirror, his phone moaned obscenely.

He showered and left the flat. – MH

Sherlock blinked a few times. What now?

* * *

It was 1 am when John came home. He felt exhausted and empty. The night with Greg had taken all his acting skills and the stairs seemed to feel a personal grudge against him, trying to be as hard to climb as possible. The dizziness John felt was suddenly replaced by pure wonder when he step through the living room door.

Every surface in the room was inhabited by various skulls. Not only human skulls, there were some cats, dogs and even a few mice skulls. On the couch-side table which was covered by no less than 12 skulls, lay a small piece of paper neatly folded to stand like some sort of reserved sign in a restaurant. John took the two steps to the table cautiously and slow, fearing he might pass out from the absurdity. A quick look around assured him that he was alone in the room before he leaned down to grab the paper. He rounded the table and sat down on the couch fiddling with the small note. He just assumed that it was a note, what else would it be?

* * *

Fourteen years ago, Sherlock had a case that involved an alleged Shakespeare-manuscript and a narcissistic expert, a combination that forced him to develop the ability to forge handwriting. It wasn't really necessary but Sherlock just wanted to compromise that cheeky bastard. It took him a long time until he was able to produce an exact copy of Hamlet and by that point he knew the play by heart.

Sherlock had often planned to delete this knowledge but he never did, partly because he quite fancied Shakespeare but mostly because John did too. They argued about the skull's name now and then, and Sherlock never admitted that he envied John for the idea.

Writing the note for John took him 15 minutes and three attempts. When he was done, he folded it neatly in half and let his fingers slide over it.

_You will get your miracle, John._

* * *

_**Doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar…**_

John immediately knew that it was a Shakespeare quote. Well, the language made it obvious. He jumped up from the couch to search through his books for the source when another thought struck him. _WHO?_

Who would take Yorick, replace him a few days later with a lot of brothers and sisters, and leave a note for him that would lead him think about….doubt?

Doubt was something he'd gotten used to. He had doubts about his future, his feelings and sometimes he even doubted his past. In his weakest moments, there was nothing he was certain of, except one thing. He _always,_ every second of his existence, believed that Sherlock wasn't a fake. If the note wanted to make him believe that he lied, John would be certain that it didn't come from a friend.

It came back to the source then. He had a much smarter plan this time. Searching though all of his Shakespeare books? Stupid idea, really! There was his laptop, right under these three cat skulls. John arranged them carefully in the few free places of his desk before he settled back on the couch with the laptop on his knees.

He typed in the quote and "Shakespeare" and was instantly rewarded.

Hamlet. He should have thought of that! What he didn't expect was the end of the sentence. Well, he expected that there was more because of the way it trailed off, but he really didn't expect _this_. At least it gave the exact source so he could re-read it in one of his own books. Just to be sure.

* * *

"Doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love".


	2. The Pilgrim

During the following days, John's mind was blissfully occupied. Not that he didn't have an immediate idea who the author of this note was, but every time he thought about this new puzzle he felt … alive. He tried to push the last part aside for his sanity's sake and concentrated on the things he should doubt. There were at least 7 possibilities who the author was but only one he truly believed in. That one option. It gave him hope but scared him, too. John tried to concentrate on the other six options although he didn't have much conviction in any of them. He knew that that small glimmer of hope would destroy him if it was disappointed in the end.

The note had given him strength. The strength to carry on and do all the normal routine everyone did. He took a daily shower, ate almost every day and had some small chats with Mrs. Hudson.  
He read Hamlet 14 times in five days. It didn't help. He didn't find the answer. With every passing minute, he grew more and more agitated. He had a strong feeling of being manipulated, not a thought that amused him. He had to take things in hand and be the one in control. It wasn't that hard to find a fitting quote to express his worries and he didn't even try to use another handwriting. What for? He folded the paper and set it in the same place he'd found the other note.

John drew an exclamation mark on the living room window.

He went to sleep, half expecting to find the note gone in the morning and for the first time in a very long while he was looking forward to waking up.

_'Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.  
__  
_

* * *

The note was still where he left it in the evening, offending him with its presence. John forced himself to eat a small breakfast before he left the flat to take a walk in the park. The fresh air didn't help clear his head and after a short walk he found himself sitting on a bench, staring at the pond.

He spent the whole day avoiding his flat until there was nothing left to be done outside of 221B but doing some shopping. Realizing that it was overdue gave John a feeling of rightness that he hadn't had in a long time. Strolling through the aisles, he allowed himself some luxury and chose to buy all the ingredients for his favorite gratin. John smiled to himself.

Stepping out on the street with his shopping bags, John noticed a melancholic and familiar melody. His. The song Sherlock used to play for him when he needed to calm down from a nightmare. He glanced at the young homeless girl standing in front of Tesco playing the violin. She winked at him.

John ran home.

* * *

_If thou sorrow, he will weep; If thou wake, he cannot sleep:  
Thus of every grief in heart; He with thee does bear a part._

* * *

John couldn't stop the tears running down his face as he sat on the couch, holding tight to the small white sheet of paper. He wasn't hurt but these words held no comfort either. While they ratcheted up his hope, they also made him feel betrayed and lost. He knew he couldn't be certain that the quote was from….the person he expected it to be from, but his instinct told him it was. After all, his instinct had saved his life more than once. He rubbed his face with his hands, struggling to calm down and think of a way to proceed.

He wasn't alone anymore but much more lonely.

* * *

Sherlock fidgeted uncertainly in the doorway of the bookshop. Maybe he went too far, but he knew what to expect of John. He _knew_ John. And John would want proof.

* * *

After he found out which source stood behind the latest quote, John was certain that the name of the poem held another hint for him. "The Passionate Pilgrim." He smiled inwardly, despite the anxiety that still pulled at his guts whenever he thought about the possibility of being entirely wrong.

John knew that the "conversation" he had was meant to be a secret, and he was more than proud of himself for having found a way to answer the stranger, whom he secretly called "The Pilgrim." Surprisingly, he wasn't worried about the fact that said stranger had broken into their flat, repeatedly. He was actually more worried about the fact that he called it _their_ flat.

John was still amazed by the homeless girl that played his melody and hoped that she was also an opportunity to deepen the contact with The Pilgrim. He knew exactly what to do if he got to see her again. He took out 20 quid and a pen before writing another one of his favorite Shakespearean quotes neatly in one corner of the banknote. He waited for the ink to dry before he tucked the money back into his wallet.

Now he had to wait.

John passed Tesco everyday for the next three days. Sometimes he went in, sometimes he didn't. He knew that his behavior was odd, if not plainly obvious. It had a good effect on his fridge, either way. John just couldn't stop himself from searching for contact. He needed to know. He needed to know everything. But the girl didn't show up again.

He paced up and down the living room wondering if he should repeat his approach with the exclamation mark. He muttered to himself and the various skulls surrounding him. John knew it would be a failure to act so obvious. More obvious then he had already been acting, anyway. Once in a while he stopped in his tracks to yell at Fortinbras, the one human skull he had left sitting on the mantelpiece. He was worried about the long time that had passed without a note. He worried for his Pilgrim.

Still thinking about the last note, he suddenly recognized a book peeking out of the row on his bookshelf. He took a careful step in its direction. His pulse was racing. He had never seen that book before. He took it from the shelf turning it over in his hand again and again. It was a brand new copy of Twelfth Night by Shakespeare. Relief washed over John when he opened the book to find a white slip of paper between the first pages.

**_I am. _**_ Act II, scene iii, 44-45_

"Fantastic!" John smiled at his new note, walking over to the desk. He sat down, digging around in his pockets for his wallet. When he found it he pulled out the 20 quid he had meant to use as a message. "Brilliant!" He grinned shaking his head. In the corner of the banknote he had written:

Be great in act, as you have been in thought.

It was not the first time that he got his answer before having to ask a question, but that stopped happening a long time ago. His grin widened even more. He laid wallet and banknote on the desk to look up the rest of the message. Act 2, scene 3, line 44-45.

His smile vanished when he found what he was looking for. Tears welled up in his eyes and his hands were shaking.

_ Journeys end in lovers meeting,  
Every wise man's son doth know._

He cried. He let all his anger, fear and pain pour out of him. There was no space left for them while hope started to bloom in his chest.


	3. Reunion

462 days and 3 hours after John received his last note, Sherlock stood in front of the National Theater. He paced up and down in front of the entrance. There were too many variables, making his head spin. Too many things that could possibly go wrong. A week ago, he had placed a ticket for Hamlet on the living room table of 221b. For the 13th time, Sherlock checked if his ticket was still there before looked up to scan the street for John.

What if John didn't come? What if he had bought another card for a date? What if he just came to tell Sherlock to bugger off, demanding that he never tried to contact him again?

Nervousness and anxiety tugged at Sherlock's gut. He had spent all day in the area around the theater. He had nothing else to do, but that wasn't the reason why he had been sticking around all day. He just wasn't able to do anything else. John. He would see John, today.

Still 20 minutes until the play began and Sherlock noticed with dismay that his hands were shaking. He constantly muttered to himself. He had internalized everything that he would have to tell John to make him understand but none the less, he kept revising the words over and over again.

His agitation had already caused wrinkles in his suit and taken its toll from his shoe soles.

Sherlock scanned the street again.

John.

The smallish blonde figure that was lingering at the next corner. It could only be John. Uncertainly, Sherlock took a few steps in his direction before he thought better of it. Patience. Give him time.

Smiling fondly, Sherlock saw that John was displaying the exact same behavior he himself had done all day. And then he looked up.

Their eyes met over the people passing by. Hesitantly, John took a step toward him. And another one. Slowly he moved closer to where Sherlock was standing. His limp was worse than Sherlock had ever seen it, even though John seemed to be used to it. With their gazes locked, the distance between them shrunk bit by bit. Sherlock's heart was beating forcefully in his chest. He could feel every beat violently against his ribcage.

After an eternity, John stopped right in front of him. Tears were welling in his eyes, his mouth agape.

"John." Sherlock's voice was hoarse. Thick with emotion and uncertainty. Before he was able to clear his throat, he was almost tackled to the floor by John's weight. Almost. He managed to stay upright but it took him a few seconds to process what was happening. John hugged him. He clutched at his suit as if he had to hold on for dear life. Sherlock, cautiously closed his arms around John and pressed a small kiss on his head.

He started to feel the wetness of John's tears against his chest and heard him sniffle every now and then. They were already attracting attention but Sherlock wasn't able to care about that. He had John back.

As suddenly as he had hugged him, John was now straightening up and assuming military posture. Sherlock let his arms dangle loosely at his sides, his gaze wandering over John's appearance. Shoes and suit had clearly been worn too often and his hair was sticking up at odd angles where he had pressed it against Sherlock's chest. John's face was a mask of suppressed emotion but his eyes were still shining brightly with shed tears.

Sherlock's own eyes were oddly wet. He forced himself to overcome his embarrassment and not wipe them away, so that John was able to notice the sentiment they shared. Even if he wasn't able to form the right words.

"We should go inside and take our seats." Sherlock said, stiffly.

"Yes, we…probably should." John replied, awkwardly before he started to fumble in his suit to retrieve his ticket.

* * *

They sat in silence until the play began. Now and then, they looked at each other to ensure that the other one was really there.

It was a new adaptation of Hamlet with the original text by William Shakespeare. Sherlock watched John closely while the play commenced and missed most of what happened on the stage. At certain lines he noticed that John was moving his lips, as if speaking in sync. His expressive face struggled more than once for composure.

During the break, John excused himself to the loo. When he came back his eyes were red and he looked very tired.

The second half of the play was torture for Sherlock. John sat stiffly beside him and stared ahead with empty eyes. It made Sherlock's heart ache and his hands clench involuntarily. Then, out of nowhere, John turned his head towards him and smiled an almost unnoticeable smile.

"It's good." He stated, before he turned his head back to the stage.

Sherlock summoned all the bravery he could muster and slowly shifted his hand far enough on the armrest that he was barely touching John's wrist. There was no protest. Sherlock counted to ten and took John's hand in his. He was rewarded with a soft squeeze that made a shudder run down his back and his throat go dry. He swallowed heavily, trying to concentrate on the play in front of him.

* * *

The play was too short. It was over way too soon and they were standing outside the theater awkwardly., looking everywhere but at each other.

"Are you hungry?" Sherlock asked with forced casualty, glancing toward a shop on the other side of the street.

"No. Erm…sorry." John answered while he tugged at something fuzzy that was sticking out of his sleeve.

Sherlock shifted his weight, uncertain on how to proceed. He had just considered suggesting a pub when he felt John's hand around his elbow, pulling him down. He had only begun to move his head to look at John when felt soft lips against his mouth. It was sweet and chaste and before he managed to react, John had already pulled back and looked into his eyes.

"Want to go home?" He asked, expectantly. Dumbstruck, Sherlock nodded and let himself be dragged to the tube station.

* * *

Sitting in the parlour of 221b, Sherlock noted all the differences and similarities. It was obvious that John had planned to bring him here or had at least taken the possibility into account. Aside of some crisps on the table there were also some DVD's and a candle. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the candle. _Oh._

"What happened to Yorrick?" John asked with a smile, sitting down on the couch.

"Homicide." Sherlock answered in an attempt at humor.

John chuckled, shaking his head. "Motive?"

Sherlock almost missed the question, too caught off guard by John's nod to the small space beside him. A clear invitation to join him on the couch. "Obscure. Probably jealousy?" He had taken the seat beside John and cocked his head now to make him understand that he needed him to see the deeper meaning.

"The murderer had obviously been very upset about the influence the victim had on his… beloved." Sherlock's heart began to race when he saw the small blush that was spreading over John's cheeks. Rubbing his hands over his thighs, Sherlock nervously stared at the floor.

"A very vicious motivator.…Love. I heard about that." John said in a hushed voice. Sherlock felt John's hand on his knee. John looked into his eyes, smiling tenderly when Sherlock finally overcame his insecurity and met his gaze.

"A strong one, too." Sherlock added before he leaned closer to John and leaned his forehead against his.

For a few seconds, they were just sharing their breath, relishing the others vicinity. Then, John's hand came up to caress one side of Sherlock's face before wandering to his neck and pulling his head closer, pressing their lips against each other.

John moved his lips softly over Sherlock's, nibbling tenderly at his plush lower lip. He dragged the tip of his tongue over the delicate skin. Sherlock whimpered in surprise but it didn't take him long to understand what John wanted him to do.

He parted his lips minutely but wasn't immediately _ravished _as he was expecting. John waited a few torturous seconds before he let his tongue slip into Sherlock's mouth. He would not rush this. After waiting an eternity to have Sherlock back he was determined to take his time. The fingers of his left hand were softly cradling Sherlocks neck as he moaned in appreciation of the moment.

Hesitantly, Sherlock pulled back, bringing one hand up to John's face. He wiped his thumb over the doctor's lower lip, his eyes following the motion, before he looked into the flushed face.

"Don't you have questions?" John's face was crossed by a deep sadness that felt like a punch in the to Sherlock, the dazed expression he wore just a second ago seemed to have never have been there.

"No. Not now. Maybe not even this year. I…I can't..." His chin lowered more and more. His gaze was slowly sliding downwards, as if the emotions that were written all over his face had an own weight that pulled on his head.

"But, don't you want to know why I…"

"NO!" He yelled, jumping up from the couch and stumbling backwards.

Standing, Sherlock reached a hand out towards him in an attempt to regain control of the situation. In mere seconds, he had managed to destroy their newly found closeness and break loose a storm of emotions in the middle of their living room.

He watched John, inching further and further away from him, pulling desperately at his own hair while he struggled for words.

"John, I…"

"No, Sherlock. I can't….I'll …go to bed. Good night." His voice was small and vulnerable. John hastily fled from the room and, heavily limping, mounted the stairs.

Frozen, Sherlock stood in the parlour, processing what just had happened.

* * *

I know, that took ages. I really didn't know how the story should go on and was definitely not willing to just end it somehow. Well, as it appears now, it's not gonna end soon. Thanks to ConfessionsOfaTeenagedFangirl for the beta!


	4. Skulls

Still taken aback by John's sudden departure, Sherlock paced the living room. With every step, he grew more and more agitated about their lack of conversation. He had been so very well prepared. Had thought of every possible reaction to his revelation. Every single turn of events. But not this. He had never seen John so withdrawn while being so very tender at the same time.

He stopped dead. What if John would never listen to him? Would never again be the same?

Panic flared up beneath his rips and cold sweat broke out all over his body. _No._ That just couldn't happen.

At first he had been slightly uncomfortable with John's displays of affection but now he craved his reassuring touch.

Frantically, he looked around himself but there were still a few things of him left in their living room. Yes it was still _their_ living room. He briefly wondered what had happened to all the skulls he had placed in there so long ago, but he was much more interested in finding out if John had already banned him from his life, to give it more thought. Resolutely, Sherlock turned towards his bedroom.

Standing in the door, he was confronted with a wall of boxes. 23 of them and surely enough, they were all filled with his belongings, which had been scattered all over the flat the day he had to leave Baker Street. The only thing that he found odd was the way the boxes were arranged. There was no obvious reason as to why they were piled up in the middle of the way. Blocking view and entry to every person who might attempt to enter the room. Neither the amount nor the weight of the boxes justified their arrangement. It had to be on purpose then.

An image of John, blocking his own way to Sherlock's sole legacy came up in Sherlock's mind and made his heart clench.

Enraged, he began taking the boxes down and disposing them around himself. He only stopped when every box was standing on the floor and then started to carry them into his room, where he tried to unpack them all. Realizing that he had used their whole flat for a reason, he gave up at least. There were still 9 boxes left but they could easily be arranged in several places.

Exhaustion crept up on him and his bed looked rather inviting but he didn't have to be the genius he was, to know that his bedding hadn't been changed in almost 18 month.

In one of the boxes, he had earlier found his towels and a dressing gown, what made him a lot more content than he should have been, now that he was dozing off on the couch, freshly showered.

* * *

A huge crashing sound wrenched Sherlock out of his light slumber. Blinking his eyes open, he immediately dismissed the possibility of a fight. The sounds came from John's room. One pair of feet. Objects hitting the walls. No yelling or screaming.

John.

Sitting up, Sherlock listened intently to John's indignant anger. A shudder ran over his back when he heard something that sounded suspiciously like a fist hitting a doorpost. For a few seconds, it was surprisingly quiet before Sherlock heard hesitant steps descending the stairs. The door to the living room creaked slowly open to reveal a red-faced army doctor.

John obviously didn't dare to meet his gaze while he crossed to the mantel piece. In a split second, Sherlock knew what John meant to do. Alarmed, he leaped up from the couch and hurried to block John's way.

"No! Not this one." He stated forcefully.

John merely lifted his head to fix his wary gaze at Sherlock before he nodded in acknowledgement.

"Fortinbras." He said with a dismal voice before he left again.

Sherlock clutched the skull to his chest like a beloved pet while he listened to John's steps on the stairs. He would not watch while John destroyed one of the few things Sherlock had ever given him out of sentiment. Struck by sudden fear, he rushed through to the book shelf to gather the copy of Twelfth Night by Shakespeare, he had once bought only to make John understand what he felt for him.

Emotions threatened to overwhelm him. It was all too much. Too much to process. He had barely managed to recognize his sentiment towards John for what it was, but this…._this_. It was not at all something he knew how to handle. He didn't even know what those emotions were called. These strong feelings were too entangled, too intense for him to identify or even compare to ones he'd felt before.

In an attempt to calm himself, Sherlock began to search for a hiding place that would be secure enough to protect his gifts, especially Fortinbras, from John's rage.

* * *

John sat on his bed, clenching and unclenching his left hand in his lap. His heart was beating violently in his chest. He was so angry. His skin was burning like fire and his fist was still itching with the desire to punch…something. He threw his head back, forcing himself to take a deep breath. Slowly, deliberately he released it again.

Taking his eyes of the ceiling, he let his head slowly sink to scan the room around him. Absolutely everything was covered in bone fragments. His mirror was lying as cullet on the floor.

It was not the first time that he had raged in his room. Hell, he was gradually running out of furniture at this point. But that didn't worry him at all. What did though was the fact that he had been extremely careful with the skulls all the other times, while tonight it seemed that all his anger had concentrated on them. The skulls Sherlock had given him to provide him with a conversation partner after he had apparently destroyed Yorrick.

John felt his eyes prickle, fresh tears trying to dissolve from them. Ridiculous. He wanted him to talk to _bloody skulls_! Skulls! And he wouldn't have cared at all, hadn't he stolen Yorrick in the first place!

A new wave of anger began building up in his chest but he pushed it down with all his might.

Sighing, John began to clean his room.

* * *

When Sherlock awoke the next morning, John was kneeling beside the couch, softly brushing back some curls from his forehead. His face was tired and wary, wearing a sad smile.

Sherlock met his gaze, feeling compelled to appear at ease with the loving touch in spite of his ongoing haggardness. Tenderly, John took Sherlock's hand and began rubbing it gently between his palms.

"Look…because of last night. I…I am sorry. I didn't mean to scare you!" His voice was controlled but Sherlock could clearly make out what John really meant. _Don't leave me._

"You didn't. I just wasn't anticipating this…vigour." At the last word, John visibly winced and cast his eyes downwards.

"I...It won't happen again."

Neither of them was naïve enough to believe it.

* * *

It was bound to become an exhausting day. Mycroft had scheduled an appointment with Lestrade to take Sherlock's (fairly late) statement about his "dead". Lestrade though only knew that he had one hour in his schedule in which he'd an appointment with god-knows-who.

Upon entering Scotland Yard, John took his hand and straightened his back, a huge _I told you so_-expression plastered all over his face. Watching John from the corner of his eye, Sherlock strode towards the elevator.

Walking through Lestrade's division, Sherlock felt a prickling sensation under his skin. There were approximately 30 people in the open plan office that instantly stopped everything they'd been doing as soon as they noticed Sherlock. Mouths agape, people weren't even whispering or exchanging looks, they were just standing there as if someone had suddenly stopped time and space. A few of them actually looked at him as if he was the first sign for an oncoming apocalypse.

In a corner, a printer was working furiously, causing the only sound in the spacious room. John led the way towards Lestrade's office, seemingly at ease with the extreme amount of attention they were receiving. A few steps before they reached their destination, the door flew open and Lestrade was looking angrily at the scene before him.

"What's up with you? I thought you'd all suddenly vanished. What is it?" He let his gaze wander through the room before he turned his head in the direction in which his subordinates were staring.

Abruptly, he straightened up and crossed the distance between his door and the Consulting Detective in a few strides. He easily overcame the remaining few inches with his outstretched arm. The sound of his fist connecting with sharp cheekbones finally dragged his inferiors out of their consolidation.

* * *

It was a waste of Sherlock's time. He had been talking for almost forty minutes now but no one was actually listening to him. Lestrade's eyes were wide and absent, it was obvious that he didn't hear a word of Sherlock's explanations. While he kept on talking Sherlock was very aware that he only continued for John's benefit. He still found they needed to talk and if John wasn't willing to listen to him he would just state his reasoning in this less intimate ambience. But John's face wore an expression of inviolability.

A knock on the door interrupted his flood of words. While Sherlock immediately stopped talking, it took Lestrade a while to notice that Sally Donovan was peeking around the door, looking like a concentrate of the reaction they earlier received.

"I just arrived. They told me…How did you…?" She stammered, an expression of utter shock distorting her face. Furious, John scrambled to his feet. His body was tense as he made his way to the door. Resting his hand on the door knob, his facial expression was a threatening testimony of a hidden violence that was entirely knew to Sherlock and apparently also to the woman currently confronted with it. Cautiously, she pulled her head back just in time for John's decidedly angry shove on the door.

A look of horror had taken over Lestrade's face and it had nothing to do with the loud _thud_ that rang through his office.

When John turned back and made to walk to his chair, Sherlock decided that it was time to go. He leapt up from his chair extending his arm towards Lestrade. His cheekbone still ached but he knew that the DI's anger had vaporized just as fast as it had flared up. What he didn't expect was Lestrade rounding the table to give him a firm hug. As he loosened his arms and rested his hands at Sherlock's elbows, he looked as if he was about to say something, but the uncertain movements of his mouth only lead to more silence. A shiver ran down Sherlock's back when he noticed the tears, in the other mans eyes. _Definitely time to leave_.

He took a step backwards, breaking away from Lestrade and closer to John who was already standing behind him.

"I'll be available if you need me for a case." Sherlock stated awkwardly before retreating with John on his heels.

* * *

I admit...thats gonna hurt. A bit.


	5. What Needs To Be Done

When they arrived back at Baker Street, Sherlock knew that John had noticed Mycroft the same second he had done. He felt it in the sudden tension seeping into John's body and the loosening grip on his hand. Sherlock held John's hand tighter and watched Mycroft's minions while they carried various duffel bags up into their flat.

"Mycroft." He drawled with fake annoyance.

"Sherlock. John. I must say, I feel a bit of nostalgia seeing you reunited."

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to yell at the intruders to leave their flat and never come back again.

"I am just being kind, brother. I took the freedom to buy you a new wardrobe regarding the fact that you spent the last 17.4 months in countless disguises. And naturally I wanted to say hello to John, as well." Sherlock turned his head towards John, prompting him to do what had to be done to make Mycroft leave.

"Hello Mycroft." John sighed, rolling his eyes.

A polite smile appeared on his brother's face. Sherlock wanted to get rid of him, wanted to be alone with John and find out if he had actually listened to his explanations, back at Scotland Yard.

"Well, if that's all..." He inclined his head into the hallway's direction and John immediately took the hint. He gave Mycroft an unusually polite nod before he followed John inside.

On their way up the stairs, they had to bypass Mycroft's men that were now leaving as if his brother had called them with a dog whistle, what he probably had.

* * *

40 minutes later, John was sitting in his chair reading the newspaper while Sherlock was in his room, sulking about the fact that John seemed to deflect every attempt Sherlock made to bring up his statement at the yard. John's weapon of choice was ignorance. He had simply left the room, showing no reaction at all when Sherlock tried to talk about it over a cup of tea. When John came back, he had acted casually and had placed a gentle kiss on Sherlock's cheek.

The suit bags had already been put away and he went about sorting his other clothes to find out which were still in good repair although they had been hanging untouched in his closet for far too long. Most of his suits were still in good shape, as well as his underwear and the (undisturbed) sock - index but Sherlock did not consider wearing anything but the suits ever again.

Probably John would go shopping with him.

"John?" He threw his socks in a pile on the floor of his still dusty room.

"John!" His pants were next to end up on the pile.

"JOHN?" Sherlock lifted his head to look if John was already standing in the door but not answering. No.

He stood up from his kneeling position in front of the drawer and listened for nearing steps. Still nothing.

Curious, he made to go to the living room when he saw John standing in the kitchen. His breathing shallow, perspiration forming on his face and eyes wide with…fear?

"John? John, what is it?" Worried, Sherlock stepped closer, resting one hand on John's shoulder and looking into those deep blue eyes as if they held all the answers he needed.

John's respiration quickened as he blinked to shake his torpor off. Not long and he would be hyperventilating. Sherlock carefully pushed him back until he collapsed into a kitchen chair.

"John, listen to me! You have to calm down. Breathe with me! In …and out. And again. In …and out." After a few minutes, John gradually calmed down but there was still a trace of fear on his face. As Sherlock took a step back to give him more space John stood up, his eyes frantically looking about.

"I need to get out! I…I am going to take a walk." Sherlock followed him to the door but when he took his coat John's hand on his held him back. He looked searchingly into John's face but the only answer he got was a shake of his head.

Watching John leave, Sherlock wondered what just had happened.

With furrowed brows he sat down in his chair and evaluated the causal chain.

He had been in his room. The room that had been blocked during Sherlock's absence. Then he had called for John. John, who had made it halfway through the kitchen before he obviously had a sudden panic attack.

Stupid.

Sherlock groaned in despair. He had definitely underestimated the seriousness of John's emotional trauma, his disappearance -_betrayal,_ a small voice corrected- had caused.

A strong wave of guilt made goose bumps bloom all over his body but there was no time to dwell in it. He knew that most people would recommend a therapist but he had cured John once before and he deemed himself perfectly capable to manage it again.

Determined to make amends, he started his laptop and began to reactivate old contacts.

* * *

There was a sandbag hanging in the living room when John came back but before he had a chance to ask about it, Sherlock stood in front of him and gave him a soft lingering kiss.

John felt dexterous fingers caressing his neck and one hand resting gently on his hip. A small sigh escaped his lips when Sherlock drew back. He felt his face stretch in a huge smile. It sat foreign on his face but felt good none the less.

"Erm…Thank you." He said uncertainly. "What was that for?" Sherlock smiled mischievously at him and looked at the sandbag.

"That was an attempt to please you to obtain a favour. A quite enjoyable one, I dare say."

"You want me to train you?" He asked in disbelief.

"No, I want us to train together."

"Why?" John's voice carried a hint of irritation and incredulity.

"It would help us in cases. We would build up more strength and develop boxing skills which could be sufficient to handle most of our future opponents. Plus, it would be good for our general stamina." Sherlock rattled with his _Try to keep up _– voice.

John oppressed his doubts in favour of pulling Sherlock in for another kiss.

* * *

One hour later, they were sitting on the floor below the sandbag, sweating heavily and, on John's part, feeling better than in a long while. Especially when Sherlock bend forward to lick a drop of sweat off of his collarbone.

"Interesting." He commented dryly while he watched John's pupils dilate but leaned instantly back when he recognized the worried expression on John's face.

"Sherlock, erm….We haven't talked about ...this, yet. "He gesticulated between the both of them.

"I didn't even ask you if you are alright with it." John said, slightly unsettled.

"Did I just lick at your collarbone? Really, John, don't be daft. I would not participate in this kind of physical contact if I wouldn't want it." Sherlock's voice was annoyed but underneath was a strong fondness.

"Well, that's…good. It's just…You initiate this _contact_ much more than you did just a few hours ago." John stated suspiciously although relief was written all over his features.

At this, Sherlock stood up and straightened to his full height in one graceful motion.

"Does it really bother you, john?" He answered with a grin before he disappeared into the bathroom to take a shower.

John found, it did not.

* * *

Sherlock had never been interested in sexual contact. At least not aside from his general scientific interest in everything that could be part of a murder motive. He doubted that he would ever have tried to coax John into more than friendship but he found that he didn't mind it. He wasn't familiar with things involving sentiment so he couldn't be sure what it was that he felt for John but, now that they had crossed the line already, he was looking forward to find out what it would be like to have a romantic relationship with someone he truly cared about.

Standing under the spray of the shower, he shuddered remembering John's dilated pupils and the feeling of wet skin under his lips.

Fortunately, his plan to cure John involved a functioning sexual relationship, as well. He would help John to overcome his suppressed anger and his physical reactions to psychological triggers. For John's sake and for his own.

John would be able to enter his room. He would even sleep there. There would be no more nights of destruction and rage. No suppressed urge to punch someone for being an idiot.

Sherlock would see to that.

* * *

They spent the evening in comfortable silence, watching Parade's End and snuggling up on the couch.

It was almost midnight when John kissed Sherlock's temple and announced that he would go to bed. Sherlock barely nodded and got up from the couch.

"Alright."He said, making his way to the hallway.

John followed him suit, too dumbstruck by the turn of events to fully process what Sherlock was up to. Just when they reached his bedroom door, John found his voice again.

"So, you are going to sleep here." It wasn't a question.

"Yes." Sherlock said unconcerned and entered the room. Stopping in front of the bed, he efficiently undressed down to his pants and crawled under the duvet.

John looked at the bed hesitatingly before he decided to just go with it, though he reluctantly kept his shirt on. Cautiously, he lay down beside Sherlock and dragged the duvet over his bare legs. He was uncertain what Sherlock might expect of him so he just lay there on his back, staring at the ceiling. As it turned out, Sherlock didn't expect anything else of him.

"Good night, John." He whispered before he curled himself around John, resting his head over his heart.

Smelling the shampoo in Sherlock's hair, John felt the tension seep out of his body, giving way to exhaustion. He closed his eyes and instantly fell asleep.

That night, he didn't wake up feeling angry and wired. Instead, John slept deeply for almost seven hours and woke up with aching muscles, a sly grin on his face and Sherlock's soft breath on his skin.

* * *

Well, tell me what you think. I am looking forward to read an outside opinion. Thanks to MadameGoethe, iamsuperlocked, mrtardisblue and ConfessionsOfaTeenagedFangirl


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